The Whole Truth (A. Shaw 1)

He certainly felt guilt for what he’d done. In fact he’d already pledged ten million dollars to a fund set up for the families of the victims of the London Massacre. It was the least he could do, he believed. And while across the Atlantic in England people were trying to make sense of what seemed senseless, he had gotten down on his knees in his $175 million aircraft, and asked his god, who surely couldn’t be that much farther above him, to forgive him. And when Creel rose off that wool-carpeted floor and got back into his luxurious bed and turned off his ten-thousand-dollar designer lamp, he was reasonably certain his god had accommo

dated him.

While Pender was busy manufacturing something and selling it to everyone as the truth, Creel clearly knew what “real” truth was.

The world is a much safer place when the powerful actually use their power and much less safe when they don’t.

The United States could wipe out the problem in the Middle East in days. Certainly there would be innocents who would die. But what was the difference between millions killed in ten minutes or ten years? They’d still be dead and you would have avoided a decade of misery and uncertainty. And Creel would gladly provide every weapon needed to extinguish the savages. It really was all about us versus them. And only the strong survived.

“And the weak perish,” he said to the setting sun as it colored the water and the Italian coast a noble burgundy. The weak always did die. It was the natural order.

If Creel has his way the big boys would be back in control. Mutually assured destruction, or MAD, was a term from the cold war and the subject of much fear, all of it misplaced. MAD was actually the greatest stabilizing force in history, though so many people, ignorant of how the world really functioned, would be appalled by such a statement. MAD provided certainty, predictability, and perhaps annihilation of certain elements of humanity for the greater good.

He walked to the upper deck railing and looked down at his sleeping wife. She was an idiot, like most people. They were blind to everything but themselves. No vision. Simple, weak, lazy. He gazed once more at the photo of Shaw. He didn’t look simple, weak, or lazy. Because he wasn’t.

It would be a pity to have to kill him. Yet Creel would, if necessary.

He lifted the ship’s phone. The Shiloh’s captain, a man with thirty years’ experience on the open seas serving a variety of rich masters, answered in a brisk positive tone.

Creel said, “Arrange to bring all the children out tomorrow. Take in the sixty-footer to get them. And bring the mother superior. I want to give her a check.”

“Very good, Mr. Creel. Will you want to launch the submarine again? The kiddies certainly enjoyed it last time.”

“Good idea. Have it ready. And have the chopper prepped to take Mrs. Creel to the small jet. She’ll be going to the South of France in the morning. And have her maid lay out some suitable clothing. The more the better.”

“Right you are, sir.”

Creel hung up. The good captain might not have been so pleasant had he known what Creel had done. The captain was British, London born and raised.

But the children would come tomorrow. Creel’s life had become a series of balances. One bad deed weighed against one good one. Yes, he very much looked forward to the children coming tomorrow.

And to building them a brand spanking new place to be orphans in.

CHAPTER 61

THE STEEL BED ROLLED OUT with a clanking sound that Shaw felt down to his toes. The place smelled of chemicals and urine and other things he didn’t want to think about.

Frank stood next to him.

“Look, Shaw, you don’t have to do this. In fact I’m thinking you shouldn’t be doing this. Why remember her like this? In this place?” He waved his hand around the antiseptic space.

“You’re right,” Shaw said. “But I still have to do it.”

Frank sighed and nodded at the attendant.

For an instant, as the man’s fingers clutched the sheet, Shaw wanted to run, run to daylight before it was too late. Instead, he simply stood there as the sheet was lifted up and Shaw stared down at Anna. Or what was left of her.

He tried to avoid staring at the wound in the middle of her forehead, or the V-shaped suture tracks where the medical examiner had cut her open looking for helpful clues as to what had killed her, or at the twin bullet holes that had erupted through her chest. Yet he found that was all he could look at, the absolute destruction of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He didn’t even have the gentle embrace of her green eyes, since they were closed forever.

He nodded at the attendant again and turned away. The bed rolled back and the door clanged shut and with Frank’s help Shaw left the death room on shaky legs.

“Let’s go get drunk,” Frank said.

Shaw shook his head. “I have to go to Anna’s apartment.”

“What, are you some sort of masochist? First you see her on the slab and now you want to go rip your heart out some more. What’s the point, Shaw? She’s not coming back.”

“I’m not asking you to go. But I have to.”